


This is Life in Colour

by agent_izhyper



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Doctor John Watson, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, basically just John & Sherlock being... themselves, mildly hurt!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2013-08-04
Packaged: 2017-12-22 09:45:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/911771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_izhyper/pseuds/agent_izhyper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'John thought with a flash of amusement that only Sherlock Holmes could look like he was about to pass out and still maintain his usual level of acerbic scorn. "You're a git," he told him mildly.<br/>"And an idiot," he added as an afterthought, though no less pointedly.'</p><p>A look into the perks of being both a doctor and a soldier when one is the friend of Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is Life in Colour

**Author's Note:**

> **disclaimer thing:** I am in no way educated medically (unless you count Biology class, which I, frankly, don't) though I have kept whatever John does here vague on purpose, considering whatever I know about treating wounds is all learnt from TV shows and fanfiction, so... x)  
>  Okay~ read on, and I hope you enjoy it :)

(18:12)  _Where are you?_

(18:23)  _Case. -SH_

John stared at the text message, then shook his head and repocketed his phone. He left his bag by the door and wandered into the kitchen to heat up some food. He sat at the table as he waited, mindful of the experiments on-  _whatever that was_ \- in front of him.

He shot glances at the door more times than he cared to admit, but something was niggling at the back of his mind. Sherlock was hardly one for detailed messages – on the contrary, he seemed to purposefully keep them vague – but John couldn't help wondering why this one was different.

He frowned at his phone, but then shrugged it off. Knowing Sherlock, he was probably busy chasing down some criminal and didn't have time for texting. The thought didn't do much in way of reassuring him. He'd seen the trouble Sherlock got into when he was with him. He didn't really want to think about what might happen when he  _wasn't_ there.

After all, Sherlock may have been fine enough before he came, but John could count more than one instance where he'd saved the man from an early grave, or at least serious hospitalisation.

John was almost dozing on the couch in front of the TV when the door swung open half an hour later, snapping him out of it. He turned his head, mouth open to make some glib remark or other at his flatmate, but the words died before they could leave his lips at the sight that met his eyes.

"Christ, what the hell happened?" He was on his feet and in front of Sherlock in a heartbeat, hands out to steady him though he made no move to step in. John stared at the grime and blood covering his friend, particularly his left arm where the sleeve was practically saturated in red. Not just the sleeve – there was a strip of familiar fabric wrapped tight around his forearm. A closer look revealed it to be Sherlock's scarf, now all but unrecognisable due to the sheer amount of blood drenching it.

His mind immediately jumped to assumptions but John didn't say anything, instead gripping his flatmate's uninjured arm and pulling him into the room so he could at least shut the door. He didn't miss the slower movement of his limbs as Sherlock made to keep on going to the couch, nor his paler-than-normal complexion. Not surprising, considering the amount of blood he seemed to have lost.

"A lucky shot," Sherlock eventually muttered once he was seated and John came to stand in front of him with his arms crossed and eyebrows raised in silent question.

John's lips thinned into a white line as his suspicions were confirmed. His next words were short and clipped. "Anything else?"

He shook his head, seeming content to just slump there. John's eyes narrowed, silently taking in symptoms and diagnosing. He turned to grab his medical bag from where he'd left it next to the door, striding into the kitchen as well to fill a bowl with water and grab a clean hand towel. Previous experience had taught him that trying to get an injured Sherlock to get his wounds treated at the hospital  _like he was supposed to_  were more than futile, and John really didn't want to get into the same argument while his friend bled out all over the sofa.

Sometimes John wondered what the idiot would be doing if he wasn't a doctor, before realising that Sherlock would somehow make it work out without needing to step foot into the sterile white halls that he apparently so dreaded.

"Alright," John said as he crouched in front of Sherlock who, he was slightly alarmed to notice, was even paler than before and now donned a slight sheen of sweat across his forehead and down his exposed collarbone. The wound must have been deeper than he'd initially thought. "I'm going to remove the scarf now and see the wound."

Sherlock's sharp eyes shot to him then, a familiar impatience filling them. "I haven't sustained a concussion, John. I can see what you're doing perfectly well."

"Good to know," John said under his breath with a wry twist to his lips. He reached forward and deftly unknotted the scarf, no longer its brilliant blue shade now, and carefully peeled it away. The sleeve of Sherlock's coat had been ripped at the point of contact. He now had a view of the bloodied mess that was his forearm and, though it was difficult to tell for sure amidst all the blood, it looked like the bullet had only clipped the side of his arm and not gone through the middle. It would have been a hell of a lot more painful if it had, and a bugger to fix up too.

"Well, it could've been worse," he finally said, dropping his hands to wet the towel. "Though you did lose a hell of a lot of blood." He glanced up to see Sherlock watching him, his blinks slow and clearly heading towards lethargic.

It wasn't enough to steal away the consulting detective's wit, though. "Your observations astound me, as usual," he said sarcastically. "And what, pray tell, is your professional diagnosis, doctor?"

John thought with a flash of amusement that only Sherlock Holmes could look like he was about to pass out and still maintain his usual level of acerbic scorn. "You're a git," he told him mildly after getting him to discard his jacket and ripping away the bottom half of the already-torn sleeve of his shirt underneath without hesitation (the man had obviously tailor-fit clothes, he could bloody well afford new ones to replace these), so that he had clear access to the pale red-stained forearm and could clean around the wound carefully. "And an idiot," he added as an afterthought, though no less pointedly.

He could feel the narrow-eyed glare that would have been a scoff on anyone else, and raised his eyes briefly to meet it with a serious look. "Why don't we make a deal?" he said at length. Even after having treated Sherlock's wounds before, he still marvelled at the man's stability in the face of stitches, even though the area had been thoroughly wiped with local anaesthetic.

"A deal?" He caught the intrigued note in Sherlock's voice but waited until he'd tied the knot on the last stitch before looking at him. A dark eyebrow rose to prompt him to continue.

"You don't go chasing after armed criminals-"

"He was hardly a criminal," the detective scoffed. "Merely a goon who was slightly smarter than the lot of idiots at the Yard."

John continued patiently, though he was relieved to see that some of the lethargy from before was dwindling away now that the wound was no longer bleeding out. "You don't go chasing after armed  _goons_ , then, by yourself next time." He barely had to glance down at his med kit to locate a piece of gauze fit for the stitches, and he applied it above his handiwork firmly, noticing the way Sherlock's arm tensed automatically against the pressure as the anaesthetic began to wear off.

"You cannot possibly believe that you will always be available every time a spontaneous case like this comes up." Sherlock smoothly raised an eyebrow at him.

John pursed his lips, knowing he was going to argue that. "Or at least let me know. Besides," he added, pushing himself up to his feet and heading into the kitchen to wash. "I've come from all the way across London for a lot less, haven't I?" He turned on the tap and watched the blood – Sherlock's blood – draw away from his hands with the warm water and swirl down the drain. He looked up as he dried off, not surprised to see Sherlock following him in and moving almost normally now.

"You do that," John said firmly, "and then maybe I don't have to keep stitching my friend up before he bleeds all over the upholstery, all thanks to your reckless stunts." He lifted his own eyebrow then to assert his point.

Sherlock frowned, but he didn't dispute the last statement. "You can hardly stop a bullet from hitting its mark any more than I can, even with an incompetent shooter as this one was."

John stared at him. "Maybe not, but I  _could_ stop the shooter," he pointed out. "And that  _lucky shot_ -" he jerked his head at Sherlock's arm; "could have been a lot luckier for him if he'd hit just a bit more to the right." The words came out sharper than he'd intended, but the image of the detective lying in the streets somewhere with a 'lucky' bullet in his heart from some  _goon_  was hardly an easy one.

Sherlock's pale blue eyes pierced him silently and John forced himself to settle his ire and unclench his hands, which had unconsciously fisted up sometime during his short rant. He made himself meet that gaze solidly, knowing he'd gotten his point across when Sherlock inclined his head in a nod.

"Very well. It's a deal."

John relaxed back against the kitchen bench at his words. "Good." He nodded once and then shot Sherlock a closer look, taking note of his improved visage compared to his appearance at the front door. Coming to a decision, he set around making the both of them a cup of tea and Sherlock sat at the table, for once not immersing himself in the experiments set up there.

John passed him his mug and then sat down in front of him. Sherlock looked up, studying him silently, before saying quietly, "Thank you." It wasn't just for the tea, and John didn't make a show of it. He shrugged and shot him a smile, then returned his attention to his mug.

He wasn't foolish enough to think his presence could stop either of them from getting seriously hurt, but he had to admit – even if it was only to himself – he did feel better knowing there was someone to watch the detective's back. That that someone was himself.

Because he didn't want to be stitching Sherlock back together any more than he already had, but he wasn't averse to shooting someone to stop what could potentially be a deadly hit.

For Sherlock Holmes, he would gladly revert to being the soldier he'd thought he had left behind.

* * *

 

_This is life in colour_  
Today feels like no other  
 _And the darkest grays_  
 _The sun bursts, clouds break_  
~Life in Colour, OneRepublic

**Author's Note:**

> Note to self: writing John is so much easier than writing Sherlock and also more stress-free because with Sherlock I'm continuously going over every line and thinking _wait is that right crap how IC is this would he actually act like this am I overplaying/downplaying it_ until I force myself to concede that, yes, it's fine, and if it's not then, y'know. Practice makes perfect?
> 
> On that note, constructive criticism is always nice, and so are comments in general. x) Also, sorry if it may seem jumpy in some parts? I know it's short, but I was half-asleep and lying in bed when I wrote majority of it, so. Yeah.
> 
> Hope you liked it anyhow~  
> Cheers :)


End file.
